


Of All Our Infinite Possibilities

by alekszova



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Guilt, M/M, Mutual Pining, ahh these foolish boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 20:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15781227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Gavin Reed makes a dumb, impulsive decision one night to kiss Connor.





	Of All Our Infinite Possibilities

**Author's Note:**

> “It turns out that having kissed someone, the possibility of kissing hangs over everything, no matter how terrible an idea it was the first time.”   
> The Cruel Prince - Holly Black

ONE

Connor is sprawled across the couch, starring up at the ceiling as a television show plays in the background. Something over dramatic, about the criminal system. If he pays too much attention to it, he is forced to think of all the inconsistencies of reality, but if he turns it off, if he switches the channel, the same problem would replay itself.

So instead he lets it play. Background noise to keep himself from the deafening silence of the room, eyes on the ceiling. Thinking.

Of nothing.

Of _everything_.

When the doorbell rings, he stands up, happy for a distraction. Something that would take his mind away from the laws of the universe.

Whoever he had been expecting on the other side of the door, it was never going to be Detective Gavin Reed.

_Gavin._

“What are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he says, and then shifts the box in his arms. “Hank asked for files on a case from last month. He thinks—whatever. I brought it over. Is he here?”

“No,” Connor replies, doesn’t go into further detail and is thankful that Gavin is too self-centered to bother asking for more.

He had been happy for many reasons when Hank had told him that he was going to meetings to help manage his alcohol dependency. For one, that Hank was getting help. For two, that he had confided in Connor. It is enough that he is allowed to stay here. It matters so much more that Hank actually wants him to be here.

“Here,” Gavin says, shoving the box outwards, into Connor’s arms. He takes it, feels the weight of a thousand pieces of paper bound in folders with staples and paperclips and little sticky notes detailing their contents beyond what is typed out neatly on the page. “Tell him I brought it over.”

“Will do.”

Gavin turns and walks down the steps without a goodbye. Connor watches him for a moment, curious. Then, quickly, he brushes away whatever thought he was having and closes the door with his foot, treks across the living room to set the box down on the kitchen table.

He is intrigued by the files inside. By the name printed along the edge of the folders. When he deviated, CyberLife broke his connection to their servers, to their endless list of data. Once, he could read that name and know exactly who it was, what this case is, download every individual byte of data concerning it.

And now he is simply empty.

Knowledge fills every corner of his insides, but he is not what he was before.

He could gain so much if he retrieved the files from the box. If he spread them out across the table, scanned each page in a millisecond, learning quick and helping Hank solve this case or making whatever connection he needs. He could feel the consumption of knowledge again, something other than what is said on television or in a book. He could fulfill the purpose that CyberLife gifted him.

And he would be so much faster than it is during the nights he would spend making cups of coffee, sliding them across the table and returning to the television or whatever horror novel Hank presses into his palms.

It’s also against the law—technically speaking. Connor is no longer with the department. They aren’t skeptical of androids in the law force—they are merely skeptical of Connor. He broke into the archive room. He let a criminal out of his cell as a distraction to do so.

If he had argued more, maybe he could have convinced them to keep him, but CyberLife revoked all of his credentials, took away the part of him that made him an asset on their side.

Connor jumps at the sound of a knock on the door, turning back to face it with trembling hands that were seconds from reaching out to the first folder.

A sign, maybe.

That he shouldn’t go snooping in other people’s business. That he shouldn’t break the law. That Hank would likely be displeased if Connor implied he couldn’t solve a case on his own without the help of an android. (What does Connor think he has done in his years on the force? What does he think made him a Lieutenant?)

_Solving cases much slower than was necessary._

He crosses the room, opens the door slowly.

“Look—”

“You’re back.”

“Yeah,” Gavin says, starting over again. “Look, I wanted—I guess—I’m sorry, alright?”

“You’re sorry?” he asks. “About what?”

He knows.

But he wants to hear Gavin say it. It makes it more real. The words coming out of his mouth, spoken by his lips, formed by his tongue.

“For—for killing you,” he says, but he says it quiet, muffled by his looking down, off to the side, a hand brought up to his face to cover his mouth as he speaks, the words lost to his palm.

“Technically,” Connor says. “That wasn’t death. It was a temporary pause in my being.”

“Fuck, can’t you just take an apology?” Gavin says, looking back up. “Do you always have to—do you always have to act like that?”

He contemplates this.

The possibility of accepting the apology, or, maybe, pressing, asking what he means. _Act like what?_ He is only himself, reverting to responding with as clear and concise and technological answers as he can when anything else seems unthinkable—

Because, yes, accepting this apology seems almost unthinkable.

_A temporary pause in his being._ It is the best way to phrase it. It wasn’t a death.

But it was death.

But it was murder.

“Stop,” Gavin says suddenly, looking like he wants to take a step back but hesitates in the movement. “Stop making that face.”

“What face am I making?” he asks, tries to think of the way his brows are furrowed, the way his lips curve, if his eyes are carrying along an emotion he is not feeling or maybe he is, but he doesn’t recognize it.

“I only came here to apologize—”

“I thought you came here—”

“Shut up,” he says, finally taking a step backwards. “I came here to apologize. I did. I’m leaving now.”

“Detective Reed—”

“Don’t call me that,” he says, looking up to him. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you, then?”

“G-Gavin.”

“Okay,” he says, a small smile on his face. “I will call you G-Gavin.”

“Fuck off.”

“I believe _you_ are at _my_ place of residence,” he replies. “You’re the one that would _fuck off._ ”

“You—” Gavin takes his step back forward, another one closer to the door. One more and he would be pushing Connor back into the house. “You’re such—”

He is about to ask, to press further, to annoy Gavin more. _He’s such a what?_ But Gavin is taking the last step up, pressing close against Connor as one hand reaches up to the back of his head, pulls him down into an angry kiss.

Connor has never kissed anyone before.

He has read scenes in books detailing it from every angle imaginable. The stars aligning. The oceans on fire. The earth moving beneath their feet. Electricity. Energy. Nothing at all. Everything there is to ever be between two people.

He has never kissed anyone before, but he has seen the movies and the television shows. He has seen the pictures in graphic novels and comic books. He has seen it drawn in cartoons and whispered about over early mornings. He has seen it as small pecks, he has seen it as heart-stopping and agonizing, he has seen it rushed across rainy streets and pressed soft against dying forms.

He has never kissed anyone. But he knows how to. He knows that when Gavin’s hand pulls his head down that he can either shove him away, stand still, or _react._

He chooses to react. He chooses to lean down, chooses to place his hands on Gavin’s waist and pull him forward, upward. He chooses to open his mouth the slightest bit, to feel the saliva against his.

He has never been kissed, but this is _pleasant._ It is not world shattering. It is not life changing. Not in those tiny seconds. It isn’t until Gavin is pulling away from him, staying close for just a second, leaning forward a fraction like he’s going to rejoin their lips before deciding against it, that he realizes why people always describe a kiss as _life changing._ As if the consequences of this kiss didn’t exist in the moment their lips were together, as if time had stopped for a moment, the world put on pause.

And then, they are apart.

And then, there are consequences.

Nothing is ever going to be the same now.

Connor feels Gavin’s lips move against his, a silent sentence only for him to know. And then he’s gone, pulling away from Connor’s arms, racing out across the front lawn towards his car.

He is too stunned to say anything. To _do_ anything.

And like all of those people in the movies, in the shows, in the books, he brings his fingers to his lips, feels the presence of Gavin still lingering against him.

 

 

TWO

He doesn’t come by the precinct very often. It is… unsettling. An abundance of emotions and thoughts that he has never been able to untangle, which is, in itself, _unsettling._

One, the fact he will never be able to return here as an employee again.

Two, the fact he has been _interrupted, paused, put on hold_ here twice.

Three, the fact Gavin Reed has kissed him exactly nine days and fourteen hours and thirty-six minutes ago and he is here. Across the room, staring at him and pretending he isn’t, like his eyes are actually glued on his phone, but the camera is delicately angled at him.

Not so subtle.

Four, the fact his desk has now been taken over by a new employee. A WR400 that wears the same face as the Chloe’s at Kamski’s.

Five, the fact that this is now a reminder of him almost killing an innocent girl.

“Connor, you paying attention?”

“Of course,” he says, setting down the paper bag, pushing it across the desk towards him, keeping his eyes glued on the metal surface. It does not stay. It always flickers back over to Gavin.

Nothing is ever going to be the same now.

“Give me a four letter word for anger.”

“Fury.”

“It doesn’t fit.”

“Rage.”

“Okay,” he says, pencil moving across the page. Hank has taken up crosswords. An outlet for all that pent-up energy. Connor thinks, maybe, he shouldn’t help him with them. That he is taking away the lines of his calmness one word at a time.

“Seven letter word for someone who attends classes.”

“Student,” he says, forces his eyes to make out the tiny imperfections of _Lt. ANDERSON_ carved on his nameplate and not the tiny imperfections on Gavin’s knuckles. “Is this a crossword puzzle made for children?”

Hank lifts up the book, shows the bright neon pink cover and the words _FOR BEGINNERS!_ listed in cheerful yellow beneath it.

“I’m working my way up.”

“Good,” he says. “You don’t want to overestimate yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“Any time,” he glances over to the other desk. It is empty, _Dt. SHARPE_ out on duty. “Does she help you with these?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re aware you would get much better at this if you did it all on your own?”

“That’s not the point. And I need a five letter word for a selfish desire.”

Connor’s lips quirk up into a smile of their own accord and he looks back to Gavin, “Greed.”

 

 

“You getting your boy a cup of coffee?”

“I think the only person that could possibly referred to as _boy_ in this entire station is you, Detective Reed,” he says. “But yes, I am.”

He is caught between smiling and wincing.

“Thought I told you to call me Gavin,” he says, leaning against the counter, watching closely as Connor makes quick work of setting the cup down, pressing the buttons. “Your programming break? You don’t follow orders anymore?”

“That’s what a deviant is.”

“I was joking.”

Gavin crosses his arms, uncrosses them. He’d come in here so selfishly. Wanting to be around Connor. Wanting to speak to him—or rather, wanting to hear his voice.

He wants to hear his name on Connor’s lips. He wants to hear how it sounded when it wasn’t laced with sarcasm or the cold tone of a machine. He wants to hear how it sounds gasped, he wants to hear how it sounds pressed against his skin, how it tastes against his tongue.

“Did you want something, Gavin?”

_Yes. Yes. Yes._

“No.”

“Then can you please move out of my way?”

He hesitates. There is the whole empty breakroom. There is so much space to go around him. Connor didn’t have to ask. He could have just moved. He could have just left.

Like Gavin had a week ago.

Run, run, run away. Don’t see what cost your actions have on another person, on yourself. Get out. Don’t look back. Hope for the best. Don’t linger too long—

_You might repeat them._

“I’m sorry,” he says, moving aside, feels the need to clarify. “For kissing you.”

Connor reaches past the space where he was, plucks the plastic lid from the dispenser. _Oh._ He’d read too much into that situation. He bites his lip, hard enough that pain pricks through him, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

“Why?” Connor asks, glancing back to him. The lid in his hands turn in a circle against his fingers—

_Those fingers_. Long and slender and delicate. He simultaneously wants to break them and kiss them.

_Why,_ he wants to shout at CyberLife, _why did you make him this way?_

“I shouldn’t—”

“Of course not,” he says, returning to his task, pressing the lid down against the cup. “But you did.”

“Yeah—”

“You really regret it?”

Connor’s focus is no longer on the cup. Not on the drip of coffee making it’s way down side, not on the cardboard sleeve a millimeter from being where it should be, not the on the seconds ticking by that takes it fractionally colder and colder.

_Does he regret it?_

Yes. No.

He had stayed up the whole night flipping back and forth between fantasizing about it and reliving the embarrassment all over again. A moan caught in the pillowcase or it pressed over his face, trying to pretend he hadn’t done that.

He kissed an android. _He kissed Connor._

It was always leading back to the feeling of it, the wanting to do it since he first laid eyes on him. Like he could pull him aside, shove him against his wall, have his way and leave him.

He wouldn’t.

Even then, he wouldn’t.

Gavin wasn’t a fool. He was skeptical and suspicious and he’d seen enough science fiction movies in his childhood to engrain in his head the possibility that machines were always something more. He’d always looked at the Eden Clubs with disdain, the list of add-ons for household androids.

Doesn’t mean he didn’t hate androids—but he was still always on the edge about them. That they were experts at hiding their sentience.

Maybe that’s why he wakes up sometimes with the sound of the gun going off and Connor falling to the ground.

Although, he never would have done it if he hadn’t seen it happen before. Seen Connor come right back. Okay. Just fine. Same slender fingers, same delicate mouth, same soft eyes, same curve of the neck.

“Gavin?” Connor says, his hand reaching forward to his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, pulling away from him before he can touch him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Connor touches him. He could react with a fist. He could react with a kiss. He wishes he had control over it. That he was always in the present, but the past has a way of digging its claws into him and dragging him back.

“Are you sure?”

“Listen,” he says, needing to take another step back. “I don’t regret it—but—”

“But you do.”

“Yeah,” he says, hesitates for a moment before tacking on, more to himself than Connor, “Doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Ask me.”

He looks up, Connor’s eyes are soft, hands clasped together in front of him.

“Ask you what?”

“How I feel about it.”

His voice is caught between a laugh and—he doesn’t know. Saying nothing, maybe. He can’t find the words. Them, asking an android about his feelings, coming out of his mouth?

“H-how—”

“I thought it was quite nice,” Connor says, saving him from finishing the sentence. He is thankful. He is so thankful.

He is so thankful he could rush forward and kiss Connor again.

But Gavin already wants to do that, so it really doesn’t change the situation drastically, except that it keeps his feet from moving a step back when Connor steps forward.

“I’ve never experienced something like it before,” he says. “I think, maybe, I would like to feel it again.”

“You liked it?”

“I liked it.”

“But you don’t like me?”

Connor slows his movements, but he doesn’t stop his step towards him. Closing that gap between them. Crossing perilous territory. One step could be into sealing his own destruction.

He watches as Connor thinks, as his mouth opens and closes trying to find the words.

The nice way to say

_No._

_Not you._

_Never you._

There really isn’t a nice way to say it, is there? Gavin has heard it a thousand times growing up. Not one of them has been nice. They have always tried to be subtle—but they have never been _nice_.

_No, not you, your brother._ _No, not you, your sister. No, not you, anyone else. Anyone. Anyone is better than you, Gavin Reed._

“No,” Connor says, sealing those words, confirming everything in his chest all over again.

Maybe it should be like reliving every moment he’s heard it. Maybe he should hear that _no_ and think of all the times people chose Elijah or Felicity over him. But it isn’t.

He is too numb to feel it anymore.

“I would like to try again, though,” Connor says. “I would like… to feel it again.”

_Of course. Of course. Of course._

He is selfish.

He will take what he can get.

Connor is the one that closes the gap between them, is the one that lifts Gavin’s head up, the one who’s hand on his waist, pulling him a fraction closer. At any point he could look away, he could reach up and shove Connor back.

He does not want to.

So, he is the one to push himself up on the tips of his toes, the one to pull Connor towards him. He revels in this. The fluttering in his stomach, the _want_ turning to _need_ turning to _satisfaction._

Connor’s hands move to his waist like before, doing his best to help Gavin reach his lips. _Fuck._ CyberLife could’ve made Connor one inch shorter and it would have been the perfect height.

But then he wouldn’t feel the slide of his jacket and his shirt coming up, the feeling of Connor’s cold fingers against the skin of his back, dangerously close to his spine.

He is going to break apart.

The thought hits him the second after their lips touch, it lingers in the back of his mind for a moment before he starts to act on it. The slow release of his grip in Connor’s hair, the slow recoiling back to himself, the hesitation when their lips are still so close but not touching. How _easy_ it would be to close the distance again, how _nice_ it would feel to kiss Connor once more.

“I—”

“You should take Hank his coffee,” he says, retreating entirely. Connor’s hands are on his waist still. Moving from the tight grip to loose, almost clinging to him. “It’s going to get cold.”

“I could make him a new one.”

Gavin smirks. Yeah. He could.

“He might get curious and come see us—”

“Oh,” Connor says, and his hands leave Gavin. The final step in the breaking process. “Right. You’re right.”

“Connor—”

“You don’t want anyone seeing you with an android, right?” he says, like the words are lodged in the back of his throat and are the only things he is able to say. Blurted out with sharpened edges. “I understand.”

That’s not what he meant.

That’s _not_ what he meant.

_That’s not what he meant._

But Connor is already gone and he can’t figure out how to say it.

Five words.

He has said each one individually millions of times in his life.

He is unable to string them together.

 

 

THREE

Three nights of tossing and turning, looking up to the dark ceiling, one hand on his lips, trying to remember the feeling of Connor’s against his.

Three nights of tossing and turning, looking up at the ceiling, one hand tightly wound at his side, trying to forget the site of blue blood and the messy silver insides of Connor’s skull.

This is how it always is.

Flipping back and forth.

Face pressed against the pillow, trying to swallow tears.

Face pressed against the pillow, trying to hold back quiet gasps of his name.

Fantasies get out of control. Thoughts intrude upon them.

One second, he is imagining Connor on his knees, not a single problem between them because he exists only as a mouth around his cock.

Another—

Connor on his knees, mouth slightly open, blood splattered against the console, a gun in his hand. It exists as more than just this fragment of a memory. It exists as—

As everything. A shift in him. _He’s killed someone._ Someone that isn’t dead. Isn’t _truly_ dead.

_Fuck._

 

 

The storm keeps him awake. Maybe, if Connor really cared, he could shut off his audio processors, even his eyes, but leaving himself in the dark is frightening. He can really die now. CyberLife isn’t going to bring him back.

Silly to think that a world of darkness means death. Hank is here, asleep in the next room over. Sumo is laying on the floor beside the couch. He is safe.

It doesn’t entirely feel that way.

He’d rather relish in the sound of the rain, anyways. The pattering of it against windows, the sound of thunder rolling in the distance, the whistling of the wind as it picks up speed.

“Sumo?” he whispers in the dark, reaching down to touch the dog’s head. “You’ll keep me safe, won’t you?”

The dog doesn’t reply. Connor doesn’t blame him. Of all the dogs in the world—Sumo is probably the least likely to do anything in the event of a robber breaking in.

In fact—

Wasn’t Connor the one to break in first? Sumo didn’t even care about him. Just sniffed at him like he was curious who this new entity in his space is.

Connor closes his eyes again, shutting out the slants of light through the blinds. He hopes the storm isn’t keeping Hank awake—it’s nearly four in the morning. He needs his rest.

Sumo shifts on the ground beside him, the loud _thud_ of a car door slamming shut breaks through the peacefulness of the storm. Connor sits up, crossing the room, stumbling against the furniture in the dark so as not step on Sumo. He peers through the blinds, looking out at the street.

The figure is stepping up towards the house, hands shoved in pockets, hood down, revealing an unreadable expression pasted across his face.

Connor would know it was Gavin even if his hood was up. He knows that jacket, he knows that walk, he knows _him_. And, of course—who else would visit Hank this late?

He reaches the door before Gavin can knock, pulling it open and leaning against the wall. Sumo sits by his leg, looking out between them at the newcomer. _Don’t bark. Don’t bark. Don’t bark._

“You psychic or something?” he asks, his voice is filled with something Connor can’t name. Not anger, but similar to it. An annoyance. A hurriedness. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I heard you slam the door,” Connor replies, pointing towards the car. It’s almost as junky as Hank’s. “You should be quieter, it’s late.”

“I’m aware it’s late.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Gavin has made it clear how little he wants to do with Connor. Kill him. Kiss him. Push him away. Pull him close.

_He might see us._

What a tragedy that would be. Precious android-hater reputation ruined. Now android-lover.

_Lover._

They aren’t in love. This is nothing. This was two mistakes.

But it beats between them. Like they should do it again. Like they are _supposed_ to. Like everything has led up to the two of them, staring at each other in the rain in the middle of the night.

“Can I come in?” he asks, peering around the darkened room. “It’s fucking cold out here.”

“No,” Connor says, stepping forward, filling the entryway. “Hank’s asleep. I don’t want to wake him.”

“Yeah, your old man need his beauty rest.”

Connor’s lip twitch, an almost smile, a vague promise of one. _Boy_ to _old man._ Like Hank is his father. Like now that he has one they are teenagers, forbidden by their parents to be together, talking late in the night hoping the rain will cover their sins. _Romeo and Juliet._

Which one is which?

“What do you want, Gavin?”

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, he holds his arms out to his side encompassing the world and unable to form words. Connor knows what the gesture means. _Everything._

Connor steps forward, pulls the door closed behind him. They are hidden under the overhang of the roof, this tiny dry space. They are still hit with stray rain drops, the wind turning them in a precarious slant.

“I—I wanted…” he pauses, kicks at the ground, keeps his eyes on his boots. “I wanted to fucking apologize. I shouldn’t—”

He stops himself and Connor can see all the things in his brain as they turn, flipping from one thing to the next. There is so much to say sorry for. There is so much to beg forgiveness for.

“What?” he asks, presses because he needs Gavin to finish his sentence, even if it’s not what he originally intended to say.

Gavin reaches a hand up, wipes it across his face in a fast movement. Connor hadn’t seen tears—but Gavin’s face is wet. His hair is dripping small droplets of water down his face, creating their own tracks of tears from the sky down his chin.

“I didn’t mean… to imply…” he pauses, looking up to Connor. “That I didn’t want to be seen with you. I—I thought—I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me. I was giving you an out.”

“I didn’t want an out.”

“Because this doesn’t mean anything,” he says, reaching up and shoving Connor back a little. “Because you’re—you’re a machine. You have thoughts and feelings, but it isn’t the same. You don’t give a shit about me. You don’t work at the precinct. People could see you kiss anyone and—and it wouldn’t change anything. And why don’t you? Why don’t you go out to a fucking club and find some other fucker that wants to make out? Why does it have to be me?”

“I—”

“Okay, maybe I lied,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Maybe I didn’t want to be seen with you. But it’s not—It’s not like you think. It’s not because you’re an android—Fuck, maybe it is. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I don’t know what I’m fucking saying.”

Gavin steps out from under the roof and into the rain, hands back in his pocket.

“Where are you going?” Connor calls after him.

“Home.”

“Why?”

“Because—” he says, turning back. “There’s nothing for me here.”

Connor chases after him, a split-second decision. One he regrets the instant his skin becomes slick with the rain, his shirt plastering against his body. He catches Gavin quickly, wrapping a hand around his wrist and pulling him to a stop.

“What do you want?” Gavin asks, turning back to him. “What the fuck do you want?”

His voice is angry now. There are no other layers to it. There is nothing else mixing in with what he’s saying. It is pure anger.

“I picked you because you kissed me first,” Connor chooses the words carefully, delicate choices made in the balance of the rain. An evenness he has to maintain. He can’t say too much. He can’t hide too much. “And I thought you would say yes. I picked you because I know you and I know—I know you’d be honest. If I was bad at it.”

“Bad at it?” he laughs, pulls his wrist away from Connor’s grip. “You’re like a fucking pro. CyberLife install that in your program?”

“No,” he says, biting his lip. “I just—”

“Fucking Christ, don’t do _that,”_ Gavin says, his hand reaching up, falling against his shoulder as if it was meant to shove him away but instead it just rests there. “Why do you do that?”

“I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. His fingers are trembling where they rest against him, curling against the fabric of his shirt. “You want me to be honest with you? About your kissing abilities? That’s what this is all about?”

Connor has to replay the words he said Gavin, has to repeat them over to himself, because suddenly he is lost. When had he insinuated that? When had he said that?

“I didn’t think—I didn’t think you wanted to kiss me because you wanted _lessons_ ,” Gavin says. “But—you want one? Don’t tell the person that you don’t give a shit about them before you kiss them. It’s fucked. It’s shitty. Fuck you for doing that.”

“Gavin—”

“Fuck you,” he repeats, pushing against Connor and then pulling him forward. His feet slide against the slippery surface of the ground and he stumbles forward, hitting Gavin’s chest hard. “I wish I hated you as much as you hate me.”

He can’t reply.

Because Gavin’s lips are on his, pulling him down. It is rushed and angry and he thinks he feels Gavin’s nails curl against his neck, digging into the plastic of his skin.

And then he is shoved backwards again.

And like before, when they first kiss, he is too stunned to say anything.

_I wish I hated you as much as you hate me._

Connor opens his mouth, is ready to yell at him, to call him back, but Gavin is already slamming the car door closed again. He rushes towards the vehicle, hand raised to—

To what? Smack the window? Open the car door? Hit the roof? Stop him somehow, with one hand raised as if he could just grab his wrist again and pull him to a stop?

The car speeds off with his voice only able to muster Gavin’s name yelled after him.

_Stop. Stop. Stop._

_Come back._

FOUR

Connor knows Gavin’s address. He’s never visited the apartment before, but he knows it. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, when CyberLife sent him out to the DPD, they loaded in the personal information of every single officer and detective. Gavin Reed’s face, his age, his birthday, his address.

He still has it. Nestled in the back of his mind, among all the other details. Ben Collins and Chris Miller and Jeffrey Fowler and the androids lining the walls. They are compact, set off to the side. Gavin Reed is glaring green, vibrant and violent. Unignorable.

His retreat back into the house is for only the keys, a pat on Sumo’s head, a note scribbled out across a piece of paper, stuck to the fridge and written a second time, taped on the bathroom door. Hank will have to see one of them, he will have to read those words.

The words that say,

_Have your car. Sorry. Important. Promise._

Promise—

Promise to tell him everything when he gets back, even if it doesn’t end well. Even if he’s collapsing against his shoulder and sobbing and saying that Gavin Reed really has hated him all along and that somehow, somewhere, he got the wrong message.

He thought—

He thought Gavin _hated_ him. Even after they kissed. He thought it was a stupid, impulsive decision. He thought it meant nothing. He thought—

He doesn’t know what he thought.

Maybe it was just denial—pushing it back further and further. Connor is an android. Gavin hates androids. It was an easy leap.

Made easier by the bullet in his head a few months ago. Made easier by the cruel words, the angry expressions.

He was not aware of how much he wanted this. It crept up on him. No, he does not love Gavin Reed.

But he could. _He could._

 

 

“Gavin!”

Gavin turns, boots squeaking against the floor.

_Fuck._

“You follow me or something?”

“No—yes,” Connor steps towards him, shrugging. “Kind of.”

“How can you _kind of_ follow someone?”

He pulls the keys from his pocket, shoves it into the lock. He’s going to have to slam the door on his face.

“I knew your address and I knew you were coming home.” Connor’s tone is the same as it was out in the rain. Cold and lifeless. No emotion. None.

Because he doesn’t feel any? No, Gavin knows he does.

Because he doesn’t feel any _towards him?_ The likely answer.

“Go home,” he says. “I don’t need any—”

Any what? Excuses? Pleas for _kissing lessons_? So Connor can feel the niceness of a kiss without thinking about the other person?

“Gavin,” he says, and his voice is so quiet, it has gone so soft. He shoves the door open. He has to get away from it. “Gavin, please—”

He shuts the door, leans against it.

_Go away. Go away. Go away._

There’s an incessant knock on the other side.

“No one’s home,” he yells through the door.

“Gavin,” he says, saying his name like Gavin has always wanted to hear.

_Over and over again._

“Please, I need to talk to you.”

“Talk through the door.”

“It’s late, do you really want to wake your neighbors?”

“I don’t give a fuck about my neighbors.”

“I went out in the rain to talk to you, can’t you let me in?”

“No.”

“Gavin,” he says, and his voice breaks on his name. “Please. I need to talk to you. I need—”

“What?” Gavin presses, because he has to know—what does Connor _need_?

“I need to see your face.”

His eyes close for a second. A moment of darkness to imagine Connor on the other side, leaned against the wood of the door, hands curled, cheek pressed against it, trying his best to talk as quietly as he can and he still be heard.

_Fine._

He turns, opens the door. Connor stumbles a little bit forward.

“You see it?” he says, gesturing upwards. Brown eyes, scar across his nose, mouth twisted in frustration. “You memorize it? Now, go!”

“No—” Connor says, pushing his way in. “I need to talk to you.”

Gavin takes a step back—a tricky person, Connor is. Just his presence getting too close is enough for his feet to now know he needs to get away. _Dangerous territory._

“I didn’t—I lied,” he says, shutting the door. “I lied about everything.”

“You lied?”

“I—I thought you hated me,” Connor says, turning the light on. Gavin preferred it when it was dark, when he didn’t have to see the exact angles of his face, the imperfections that has made him all the more beautiful. “I don’t know why. I just—I just assumed you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Why?”

“You killed me, first of all.”

Gavin winces.

“Listen,” Connor says, his voice quiet again, he is reaching out for Gavin’s hands and he has to take another step back but he hits the wall. _End of the line. Exit closed. Caution._ “I didn’t—I didn’t pick any one else because I wanted to kiss you, Gavin. I wanted—I _want_ you.”

_Fuck._

“Why?”

Gavin asks it because he has to ruin it, because he has to force Connor to see everything he’s fucked up. He has to make sure he hasn’t lost his memory. This is the person who bullied him, this is the person who put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

“Why?” Connor repeats, confused by the question. “I—I don’t know.”

He sags against the wall, his eyes closing for a moment.

“It’s not that simple,” Connor says, and his hands are touching Gavin’s face. He is afraid of opening his eyes. He is afraid of seeing how close Connor truly is. “I can’t… I can’t explain it. I just like you, Detective Reed. Why is that so hard to imagine?”

His eyes fly open, his hands coming up ready to shove Connor away but they stop half way up, can only rest halfway in the air like an idiot.

“I killed you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and broken. “I fucking killed you.”

“I know.”

“How could you—how could you ever forgive someone for doing that? How could you ever like someone that did that?”

“Hank killed me, too,” Connor says. “And he’s—”

“You’re an idiot. You’re a fucking lunatic. You can’t—”

“It wasn’t real death, Gavin,” he says, leaning forward. It is too close. His hands move again, trembling and pressed against Connor’s chest. One second and he will shove him backwards. “You both knew I would come back. I don’t hold it against you. It wasn’t a true death. It isn’t—”

“You died.”

“Yes. And no.”

“Fuck off—”

“Why do you—”

“I said fuck off,” he repeats, and it’s when he should push him. It’s when he should do a hundred things, but he doesn’t. His hands curl against the fabric of Connor’s shirt, tears prick at his eyes. “You can’t… you can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Forgive me.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

_Nothing._

“Gavin?”

“I want you to hate me,” he says. “I want you to hate me as much as I deserve.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I told you,” Connor whispers, leaning forward, his hands pulling Gavin’s face upwards. “I like you.”

Connor presses his lips against his. It is different than the kisses before. It is not hungry, it is not a soulless creature devouring the two of them. It is soft and light and gentle and it is broken by tears spilling down his face and ruining the soft taste of Connor’s mouth with salt.

Gavin pulls away and he whispers the same thing he had when they first kissed,

“I’m sorry.”

 

 

FIVE & ONWARDS

“I’m sorry,” he says again and again. It is consumed by Connor pressing his lips back against his. It is quieted by the brush of Connor’s hands over his neck. It is lost in the press of their bodies against each other.

He doesn’t really know how they got to bed. He doesn’t really remember the process of their clothes being shed. He just remembers Connor’s lips against his, the softness of their skin against one another.

He remembers saying sorry a thousand times over. He remembers Connor whispering _it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay_ again and again even though it isn’t and it will never be.

Gavin falls asleep somewhere among the hush of it against the top of his head. He buries his face in Connor’s neck, wraps his arms as tight around his body as he can.

He does not deserve him. He does not want him to disappear in the time it takes him to dream a thousand scenarios in which Connor will likely be in every one.

He wants to wake up with Connor still here. He wants to feel the warmth of his body, of the way his hand brushes tenderly through his hair. He wants to wake up to that feeling. He wants to open his eyes and know that everything is going to be okay.

That he is, in fact, _forgivable._

 

 

When he does wake up, his eyes snap open, his heart is beating fast in his chest, his hands are trembling.

Gavin reaches out and touches Connor’s body. Slowly, carefully, double checking that it’s real. He looks up to his face, sees Connor’s closed eyes. It is creepy how asleep he looks. Do androids sleep? He has never asked himself that. He didn’t really care.

“Are you awake?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Connor replies, eyes fluttering open. “Are you?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“It’s only been three hours,” Connor says, and his hand makes a trail from Gavin’s shoulder down his arm, catching his fingers in his. It sends a wave of butterflies through him, he can feel his face flush. “You should go back to bed.”

“I have work.”

“No,” Connor says. “You don’t.”

“You check my schedule with your computer brain?”

“No. I’ve just decided it. You don’t work today. You’re staying here.”

“Not really how the police operate,” he says, but he moves closer against Connor’s body, if it’s possible. “They’ll want proof I’m in the hospital or something if I don’t come in.”

“I’m sure there is someone that can hack the records—”

“Connor,” Gavin says, squeezing his fingers with his own. “I appreciate that but—”

“But what? You want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

He sighs and leans away. He doesn’t have an excuse prepared. He doesn’t have something to say that will explain that he has to go to work because he’d rather be solving stupid cases than be around Connor. That he needs a break from him, but he also can’t stand the idea of going all day without seeing his face.

“It’s…”

“Gavin? Can I say something?”

He nods numbly as Connor moves, using his free hand to tip Gavin’s chin up enough that he can press a gentle, quick kiss against his lips.

“I forgive you,” he says. “I promise you that. I forgive you. I will tell you every day if I have to.”

_He might._

“I will wait for you,” he says, placing another kiss on the bridge of his nose. “If you really want to go.”

_No, he really doesn’t._

“Or, I can stay here for another few hours,” he continues with another kiss on his forehead. “If that is what you would prefer.”

He is struck with how much he wants to tell Connor he loves him. It’s ridiculous—stupid, really. There isn’t enough time between them. There isn’t enough _good_ between them. But he wants to say it.

He bites it back, replaces it instead with,

“I’ll stay here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh?? Five times they kissed? Or five times Gavin Reed apologizes to Connor???? That's the real question.
> 
> writing / editing music;  
> American Money - Borns  
> ... that's it. I literally listened to this song on repeat for 5-6 hours lasdfkj


End file.
